Erica De Mane

Recipes:
Roman-Style Tripe with Mint, Potatoes, and Cacio di Roma Cheese
Oxtail Stew with Red Vermouth and Orange
Short Ribs with Chianti and Celery Gremolata

In February and March, when the Union Square Greenmarket in Manhattan offers shoofly pie, beeswax candles, balls of wool, and potatoes, I take my inspiration not from seasonal produce but from New York trattoria cooking. I love slow-braised meat dishes, and I’m drawn to restaurants that offer renditions made from unusual cuts like oxtail, tripe, lamb shank, or short ribs. My grandmother used to occasionally cook tripe and oxtail, to the horror of everyone in the family except my grandfather. I was a young girl when she brought these dishes to the table, and I don’t remember actually eating them (probably I didn’t). We shared a winter house in Florida with my grandparents, and about the only thing I vividly remember having for dinner there was coconut patties, which my sister and I were wild for. Why my grandmother insisted on cooking oxtails and tripe in the Florida heat I can’t say, except that my grandfather was a tyrant who probably insisted on them. She also made pig’s knuckles, which my grandfather had discovered and fallen in love with at his weekly lunches at Luchow’s, the grand old German restaurant on 14th Street in Manhattan. Tripe and oxtail went out of my life completely when I was about ten, until a decade or so later when I began visiting Rome.

Rome’s Testaccio neighborhood once housed that city’s stockyards, and even though that business is now gone, there are still many restaurants around the area, some surprisingly fancy, that specialize in hearty dishes made from butcher’s cuts such as oxtail and pajata (stuffed cow’s intestines), always long-simmered in wine or tomatoes and herbs. In Rome these cuts, along with organ meats, are known as quinto quarto, or “fifth fourth,” because they make up a fifth part of an animal that is traditionally butchered in four main sections. I wouldn’t want to eat this food every day, but I find it sensational a few times a year. When I can’t get to the Testaccio, I go to Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan, a few blocks from my apartment. Bar Pitti’s tripe with potatoes and rosemary is elegant and unexpectedly light. In addition to this Roman-style tripe they also cook up a red-wine-hued oxtail stew and serve it with a mound of soft polenta.

I cook oxtail and tripe in my own little kitchen, always buying my tripe from Faicco’s on Bleecker Street, where I know it will be extremely fresh. Tripe is actually cattle’s stomach lining, which sounds a lot less desirable than it turns out to be when lovingly cooked. There are several cuts of tripe, but the most tender one is honeycomb (in Italy tripe stews are often made with three different cuts, some a little tough and gnarly). Any tripe you buy nowadays comes already partially cooked, which cuts preparation time by several hours, although to become meltingly tender even precooked tripe needs at least two hours of simmering to soak up all the wine and herb flavors and make a softened and nuanced dish.

Short ribs are not usually associated with Italian cooking, although they sometimes find their way into Italian-American Sunday meat sauces, along with sausages, bracciole, and pork chops. They make a smart addition there, for their rich taste and gelatinous texture produces a thick-bodied sauce that clings well to pasta (I use the sauce to dress the pasta and offer the meat as a second course, usually with a vegetable or salad, in true Southern Italian style). Short ribs are the meaty end sections of ribs. If you really love the taste of beef, they’re a great cut for you, tough and fatty to start with but cooking up soft and rich. They’re too tough to just throw on the barbecue like other ribs; they need a slow braise. The long, gentle cooking dissolves much of the fat, and you skim it off the top of the braising liquid.

Despite the lengthy cooking time these meats require, once up and simmering they don’t need to be coddled; they’re pretty much on their own, except for occasional skimming. Once they’re tender, all you need do to fine-tune the dish is a final check of the seasoning, balancing the flavors with salt, a squirt of lemon juice or vinegar, a drizzle of fresh olive oil, and maybe a handful of freshly chopped herbs. You can always reduce the sauce over high heat (after removing the tender meat) to concentrate the flavors, if you like.

Here are my interpretations of classic Roman tripe and oxtail stews, plus my improvisational short-rib ragu. I hope these warming recipes will help get you through the rest of the winter.

Happy cold-weather cooking to you.

Roman-Style Tripe with Mint, Potatoes, and Cacio di Roma Cheese

I learned to cook tripe at my first restaurant job, at Florent in the meatpacking neighborhood of Manhattan. When Florent first opened, we served many butcher-type dishes, including kidneys, sweetbreads, tongue, brains, and even animelles (beef testicles). It was interesting learning how to prepare those things, but I can’t say I’ve had a longing to cook up a batch of testicles since. I have, however, developed a real fondness for tripe, and I make it a couple of times every winter. Here is my interpretation of the classic Roman way to prepare it.

(Serves 5)

2 1/2 pounds honeycomb beef tripe
1/4 cup white-wine vinegar
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
A few tablespoons of unsalted butter
A few thin slices of fatty prosciutto end, chopped
4 shallots, cut into small dice
2 carrots, cut into small dice
1 celery rib, cut into small dice
Freshly ground black pepper
2 whole allspice, ground to a powder
1 bay leaf, fresh if possible
1 1/2 cups light white wine such as Frascati
1 35-ounce can plum tomatoes, well drained and chopped
About 1 1/2 to 2 cups homemade veal, mixed-meat, or chicken broth, or low-salt, canned chicken broth (Swanson is best)
A few small sprigs of mint, the leaves lightly chopped
A generous handful of basil leaves, chopped
6 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and halved
A chunk of Cacio di Roma or other mild Pecorino cheese

Place the tripe in a large casserole fitted with a lid. Add the vinegar and pour on cold water to cover. Season with salt and bring the liquid to a boil over high heat. Turn off the heat and let the tripe sit in the casserole for 15 minutes. Drain the tripe and rinse it under cold water. This step refreshes the tripe and wakes up its flavor, and if any scum on the meat floats to the surface, it will rinse away. Dry the tripe and slice it into thin strips.

In the same casserole, add about 2 tablespoons each of butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add the prosciutto and let it sauté for about a minute, just to give off some of its fat. Add the tripe, shallots, carrot, celery, bay leaf, and ground allspice. Season with salt and black pepper and sauté until the vegetables have softened, about 5 minutes. Add the wine and let it boil down by half. Add the tomatoes, about 1 1/2 cups of broth, and about half the chopped herbs. Bring to a boil again and then turn the heat down to very low, cover the casserole, and cook at a gentle simmer until the tripe is very tender, about 3 hours (you can instead, if you prefer, place the covered casserole in a 325 degree oven). If the liquid evaporates to uncover more than about 1/4 of the tripe, add a little more broth (or if you run out, warm water).

When the tripe is tender, taste for seasoning, adding more salt or black pepper if needed. Add the rest of the chopped herbs and a drizzle of fresh olive oil. Right before serving, boil the potatoes until just tender, drain, and dress with olive oil and salt. Serve the tripe in deep pasta bowls or soup bowls with a few potatoes alongside. Sprinkle with a generous amount of freshly grated Cacio di Roma cheese.

Ideas: Mint is the traditional herb used to flavor this dish in Rome, but Bar Pitti in Manhattan uses rosemary, whose woodsy oils also blend nicely with tripe. I love this variation. If you’d like to try it, omit the mint and basil and add two small sprigs of rosemary to the casserole when you add the bay leaf. You don’t need to add additional fresh rosemary at the end, as you would with the mint and basil. Rosemary always tastes better to me when it has had a chance to open up with the heat of cooking. Fresh rosemary sprinkled on a finished dish can taste a little harsh (and the needles can be spiky).

Oxtail Stew with Red Vermouth and Orange

Oxtails were originally actually cut from oxen, which are castrated bulls. Now they are cut from everyday beef cattle, but I suppose oxtail sounds more folklorico than cow tail, so the original name of the stew has endured.

I’ve flavored the stew with a generous amount of orange juice and with sweet red vermouth. That may sound like an odd combination, and it’s not how my grandmother made it (she used tomatoes and possibly white wine, but nobody seems to remember exactly), but the long cooking blends the sweet and acid notes of the vermouth and juice into a lively sauce that gently lifts the richness of the very rich meat.

(Serves 4)

Extra-virgin olive oil
4 pounds oxtails (try to get the wider, meatier middle cut, not the tiny tail ends)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A small chunk of fatty prosciutto end, in one piece
2 leeks
2 carrots
2 garlic cloves
2 whole cloves, ground to a powder
1 cup sweet red vermouth
1 1/2 cups dry red wine
1 cup fresh orange juice, plus 2 strips orange rind
1 1/2 cups homemade beef broth or mixed meat broth (or use Perfect Addition or another high-quality frozen beef broth)
A few sprigs of winter savory, the leaves chopped
A splash of balsamic vinegar
A handful of flat-leaf parsley sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Choose a large casserole that will hold the meat more or less in one layer (a little overlap is okay). Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Season the oxtails with salt and black pepper and brown them well on all sides. Add the prosciutto chunk, the leeks, carrots, garlic, and ground clove, and turn the heat down to medium. Sauté a few minutes to soften the vegetables. Add the red wine and the red vermouth and cook at a lively bubble for about 5 minutes. Add the orange juice and rind, the broth, and the savory. The meat should be almost completely covered with liquid. If not, add more broth or water. Bring this to a boil. Cover the casserole and place it in the oven. Let the stew cook at a low simmer until very tender, about 2 1/2 to 3 hours (the meat should be falling off the bone).

Take the casserole from the oven and remove the meat with a slotted spoon. Skim most of the fat from the surface of the sauce. (Oxtail throws off a lot of fat. If you like, you can make the stew the day before serving, refrigerate it overnight, and them skim the cold fat from the surface before reheating.)

Add a splash of balsamic vinegar to the sauce and give it a taste. Reseason with salt or black pepper if needed. Also if needed to intensify the flavors, boil the sauce down over high heat for a few minutes. Return the oxtails to the sauce and reheat briefly. Add the parsley. Serve in deep pasta bowls, over polenta if you like, but I prefer a simple accompaniment of good Italian bread to soak up all the sauce.

Short Ribs with Chianti and Celery Gremolata

Short ribs can be butchered in two ways, either lengthwise along the bone, like traditional ribs, or crosswise through the bone, into shorter sections. Either cut is fine for this recipe. In New York markets I most often find the short cut, sometimes called the flanken cut. One thing you should now about that cut is that just when the meat gets really tender and juicy, some of the short bones sometimes pull away and float around in the cooking liquid. I just discard them and serve the ribs semi-boneless. This doesn’t happen with the long cut.

Gremolata, a seasoning usually associated with osso buco (veal shank), is a mix of finely chopped lemon zest, parsley, garlic, and sometimes a little sage. You either mix it into the sauce or scatter it over the top of the osso buco right before serving, for a burst of flavor. I’ve added celery leaves to the gremolata mix, picking up on a prominent flavor in the sauce. They add a refreshing and pleasantly bitter note to the very rich meat.

You’ll notice that I season the dish with a few anchovy fillets. This is common in Italian meat cooking, and also in Provençal cuisine (in Provence they often spoon anchovy butter over grilled steaks, which I love). Anchovies add a little kick to a braised meat dish like this one, and the long cooking dissolves the fish, leaving behind a gentle enrichment that is not detectably fishy at all.

(Serves 4)

Sea salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A small palmful of coriander seeds, ground to a powder
A generous pinch of sugar
About 1/2 cup Wondra flour
Extra-virgin olive oil
4 pounds beef short ribs
4 medium shallots, cut into small dice
3 inner celery ribs, cut into small dice, plus the leaves from about 5 stalks, reserved for the gremolata
2 carrots, peeled and cut into small dice
4 anchovy fillets, rinsed
2 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
2 bay leaves, fresh if possible
A few large thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
A bottle of Chianti or another rich Italian red wine
4 cups beef or mixed-meat broth (a mix of high-quality frozen beef broth, Perfect Addition or D’Artagnan, with Swanson’s canned low-salt chicken broth works especially well if you don’t have homemade broth on hand)
1 15-ounce can plum tomatoes, well chopped with juice
3/4 pound penne

For the gremolata:

1 garlic clove, peeled
The zest from 1 large lemon, using no bitter white pith
A few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley leaves
The reserved celery leaves (from above)
A pinch of sea salt

Dry the short ribs and season them with the ground coriander, salt, black pepper, and sugar. Coat them well with the flour.

Choose a large casserole fitted with a lid. Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. When the oil is hot, add the short ribs and brown well on all sides (you may need to do this in batches if your casserole is too small). When the ribs are well browned, turn the heat down a bit and add the shallots, celery, carrot, garlic, and anchovy. Sauté until the vegetables start to soften, about 4 or 5 minutes. Add the bay leaves, thyme, and the bottle of wine. Let the wine bubble and reduce by about a quarter. Now add the broth and the tomatoes. Bring to a boil. Turn the heat to low, cover the casserole, and simmer at a very low bubble until the meat is very tender, about 2 to 2 1/2 hours. You’ll need to skim fat from the surface several times during the cooking, and it’s a good idea to uncover the casserole in the last half hour, so the sauce can evaporate and thicken a little.

While the ribs are cooking make the gremolata by finely chopping all the ingredients and mixing them together in a small bowl (I like doing this by hand; an electric grinder or food processor can turn them into a mush where I prefer a dry, light consistency).

When you are ready to serve the dish, cook the penne al dente, drain, and place in a warmed serving bowl. Place the ribs on a serving platter and pour half the sauce over the penne and half over the ribs. Garnish the ribs with the gremolata. Grate a little Parmigiano or Grana Padano cheese over the pasta if you like. Both dishes can be served at the same time, or, more in keeping with Italian style, you can serve the pasta first, keeping the ribs warm, then make them a second course, along with a green salad or a vegetable such as sautéed escarole or broccoli rabe.

Read Full Post »

Recipes:
Pork Chops with Gently Vinegared Peppers
Veal and Yellow Peppers

Veal and peppers and pork chops with vinegar peppers were two extremely popular dishes among Italian-Americans during the sixties and seventies, when I was a kid. They have their origins in the cooking of Campania and Calabria, in the South, but variations on them turn up in the mountainous Abruzzi as well. I like both dishes in theory, but I’ve never loved them as made by most Italian-Americans, including, I’m sorry to say, my own family. I want to, but I can’t help thinking that if they’re worth cooking, they must be worth cooking better. My problem has always been with the peppers. People almost always make the pork chops with jarred pickled peppers, which are so acidic they make my eyes water. They overpower the pork, wine, and garlic, and absolutely smother delicate fresh herbs like basil or parsley. And to make the dish even sharper, most cooks pour a healthy amount of the pickling liquid into the pan at the last minute. Those jarred peppers are classically served, as they should be, with rich, oily cured sausage, where their reason for being becomes apparent and they actually taste delicious. Many traditional recipes call for gently pickling your own peppers, but even in Italy they use jarred peppers more often than not. I make a sautéed and gently vinegared pepper for my version of this classic.

Your choice of vinegar for a dish that relies on vinegar for prominent flavoring is very important. Here I use sherry wine vinegar for its earthy, musty tone (most Italian-Americans use white-wine vinegar, which can be good if you choose a high quality one). Also I roast the peppers, which leaves them soft, sweet, and porous (more willing to soak up seasonings).

My problem with veal and peppers is the green peppers with their skins left on. Green peppers are strongly flavored to begin with, and they can become harsh when cooked in their skins. It’s not that they don’t have a place in the world that way; they can be enjoyable as an isolated taste, as in many cooked Moroccan salads that contain only stewed green peppers, usually in the skin, and maybe a little tomato. Since veal is such a mild meat, I’ve chosen roasted, sweeter peppers as a nice change. They don’t radically alter the character of the dish, but they do soften it. I picked yellow peppers, which are not as sweet as red ones but still become mellow when roasted (although the roasting turns them a little brown, so you don’t get that gorgeous color in the stew).

Pork Chops with Gently Vinegared Peppers

Manducatis is an old-fashioned Southern Italian trattoria in Long Island City, New York. They turn out refined versions of standbys such as pasta e fagiole and eggplant Parmigiano that put other old-fashioned Italian restaurants to shame. They make a light and lively version of pork chops and peppers using red Italian frying peppers, the long skinny ones. I prefer the sweetness of bell peppers, so they’re what I’ve used here. Otherwise the dish is similar.

Thick, pink pork chops look so beautiful raw that you just assume they will be juicy and wonderful when cooked, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been disappointed by dry, tough chops, either when eating out or preparing them myself. Now I’ve learned. Pork chops need to be cooked quickly, leaving them slightly pink, or else they will get tough. The best way I’ve found is to brown them on one side over high heat, turn them over, lower the heat to medium-low, and finish cooking them gently and quickly until they are just tender and still fairly pink. The other way to produce tender chops is by long, slow braising. Anything in between will make them tough.

(Serves 2)

2 medium-size red bell peppers
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 fresh medium-hot cherry peppers, cut in half and seeded (these are the kind usually found pickled and jarred)
2 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced
A small red onion, thinly sliced
Salt
2 anchovy fillets, chopped
3 tablespoons sherry wine vinegar
2 large bone-in center-cut loin pork chops about 1 1/2 inches thick
About 1/4 cup Wondra flour
A generous splash of dry white wine
2 large marjoram sprigs, the leaves lightly chopped
A few basil leaves, lightly chopped

Roast the peppers under a hot broiler close to the heat until black and blistered all over. Run them very briefly under cold water just to cool them slightly. Peel and seed them and chop them into small cubes.

In a small skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. Add the fresh cherry peppers, garlic, and onion, and sauté a minute to soften. Add the roasted peppers, the anchovy, season with a little salt, and sauté about 3 minutes longer, just until everything is tender and fragrant. Pour on the vinegar and let it bubble until almost evaporated. Set aside.

In a medium-size heavy-bottomed skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high flame. Dry the pork chops well, coat them lightly with flour, and season them on both sides with salt. When the pan is hot, add the chops and brown on one side, about 4 minutes. Turn the chops over, lower the heat to medium-low, and cook until they are tender with a fair amount of pink at the bone, about another 4 or 5 minutes, depending on how thick they are. Add the white wine and let it bubble for a few seconds. Turn the heat to very low, cover the pan, and cook gently for about another minute, until the chops have only a touch of pink to them.

Add the marjoram and basil to the vinegared peppers and stir to blend them in (if the peppers have cooled too much, reheat them gently before you add the herbs).

Remove the chops from the skillet to a serving plate. If you have more than about 3 tablespoons of skillet liquid left in the pan, reduce it over high heat and pour it over the chops; if it is already reduced to less, just go ahead and pour it over as is. Pour the peppers on top of the chops. Serve right away.

My mother always served this dish with chunks of oven roasted potatoes, seasoned with olive oil and black pepper, and I still think they are the best accompaniment.

Veal and Yellow Peppers

When I was a kid, veal and peppers were fast food available at every pizza place in New York, usually spooned into a big hero sandwich. My father loved that, but he said it gave him agita (it was those pepper skins). My version is more a proper stew, with broth and no skins. I like garnishing the finished dish with fried capers and serving it with polenta.

A few words about canned plum tomatoes: I’ve always like Muir Glen Organic whole canned tomatoes. Not only are they fresh, red, and bright tasting, but they’re packed in enamel-lined cans, so you don’t get any of that metallic taste that can sometimes be a problem even with imported Italian brands. I’ve just discovered Muir Glen’s canned diced tomatoes, and they are wonderful. I usually never buy chopped or puréed tomatoes from other companies; they’re generally packed in a thick tomato paste, making them heavy-tasting and adding an unwanted smoothness to the sauce. Muir Glen packs theirs in a light tomato broth. They also cut them into neat, uniform pieces that look beautiful in a sauce, especially if you like your tomato sauces to have a little texture.

(Serves 4 or 5)

Extra-virgin olive oil
3 pounds veal shoulder, cut into approximately 2-inch chunks
1/2 cup Wondra flour for dredging
Sea salt
A few thin slices of fatty prosciutto end, well chopped
1 small onion, cut into small dice
2 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
A few gratings of nutmeg
3/4 cup dry Marsala
1 1/2 cups homemade or low-salt canned chicken broth (Swanson is the best)
1 15-ounce can plum tomatoes, drained and well chopped (see above for a brand I like)
1 bay leaf
3 roasted yellow peppers (broiled on all sides until blackened, and then peeled), cut into medium dice
1/4 cup salt-packed capers, soaked in several changes of cool water for 1/2 hour and then well rinsed
The juice and zest from 1/2 lemon
A large handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped

Choose a large casserole fitted with a lid. Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high flame. Dry the veal chunks and toss to coat them with the flour (Wondra is a finely ground white flour that will give a nice crisp crust to the meat as it browns and also thicken the sauce lightly as the stew simmers). Add the veal to the casserole and brown well all over (you may need to do this in batches if your casserole is small). Veal can sometimes give off a foam as it begins to cook, and this can impede browning. The best thing to do is to let the veal cook without moving it around (moving it can actually cause it to give off more foam) until the foam evaporates and the meat starts to brown. Season the meat with a bit of salt. Add the chopped prosciutto and the onion, and sauté until the onion softens, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic and grate the nutmeg on. Sauté a minute longer, just to release the flavors. Add the Marsala and let it bubble for about 2 minutes. Add the chicken broth, the tomatoes, and the bay leaf. Bring to a boil. Turn the flame to low, cover the casserole, and simmer for about an hour.

After an hour, add the roasted peppers and simmer, uncovered, for about another half hour, or until the meat is very tender (uncovering the casserole in the final stages of cooking will evaporate some liquid and help thicken the sauce). Skim the surface of excess fat and foam.

Dry the capers well with paper towels. In a small sauté pan, heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium flame. When hot, add the capers and sauté until they start to open up (looking like the little flowers that they in fact are) and become crisp, about 2 to 3 minutes.

Add the lemon zest and juice and the parsley to the stew. Stir and taste for seasoning. Garnish with the capers. Serve with polenta or rice, or just with good Italian bread).

Read Full Post »

Recipe: Whole Baked Fish with a Mellow Marinade

You know that feeling, when you’ve cooked a dish, tasted it, and found it good but not great? There’s something flat about it, or there’s a sharp note that isn’t working, or maybe there’s an unintegrated taste that throws the flavor out of balance. In short, it needs a little help. Most cooks have flavoring secrets that help fine-tune their cooking. Some finish a flat dish with a splash of good vinegar, and a sharp one with a few tablespoons of butter. I tend to use either lemon zest or nutmeg for that kind of balancing.

When I want to tame a vinaigrette, especially if I’m using it on a seafood salad, where I don’t want anything too sharp that might compete with the delicate sea flavors, I sometimes add a few scrapings of nutmeg, which seems to bring the oil and vinegar together in a mellower bond. A slightly sharp tomato sauce can be softened by a hint of nutmeg (I believe this is the reason sauces flavored with pancetta, which is usually seasoned with nutmeg, always taste so lush). I also include a few scrapings to soften the sharp edges of cooked escarole or broccoli rabe. If the wine I’ve added to a fish stew tastes a little obvious, I’ll sometimes add a pinch of nutmeg to cut its acidity. Nutmeg underscores the sweetness in lobster or shrimp, and one of my favorite ways to cook calamari is a slow braise with white wine, tomato, and pinches of both nutmeg and cinnamon. I also add a pinch of nutmeg to tapenade and to roasted red peppers, just to introduce warmth. When I make spaghetti dressed with anchovies and olive oil and the result is too assertive, a few gratings of fresh nutmeg will usually bring it into balance.

Lemon zest is nutmeg’s counterpart. I’ll grate some into a finished meat stew, especially pork or duck, to cut its richness, especially if I’ve added a heavy stock and it weighs down the sauce. When I make traditional Southern Italian pork sausages with roasted peppers, I often grate lemon (and sometimes orange) zest over the dish just before bringing it to the table; the zest brightens it up, cutting the fattiness. And lemon zest is a helpful acidic ingredient to include in a fish marinade, where lemon juice might whiten or cook the fish’s surface, making it mushy. You don’t want excess liquid in a marinade when you plan on sautéing or grilling or the fish may steam instead of browning. Try including lemon zest in vegetable and ricotta fillings for ravioli or torts where you feel the creaminess needs a little reining in. I’ve never been a big fan of cream sauces, but I occasionally make one for a first-course pasta that contains hints of both lemon zest and nutmeg, expanding the sweet cream in both directions to include warm and sharp notes. I use lemon zest in pasta e fagiole to break through the sea of starch, making the dish feel contemporary.

Whole Baked Fish with a Mellow Marinade

Here’s an instance where I use nutmeg and lemon zest in the same dish, adding both warm and sharp tones.

(Serves 2)

1 approximately 2-pound whole sea bass or red snapper, scaled and gutted but with the head left on
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
The zest from 2 lemons (without any white pith), plus the juice from 1 lemon
3 garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
About 1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Freshly grated black pepper
Sea salt
1/2 cup sweet white wine (a Moscato is perfect)
A large handful of basil leaves, cut into thin strips
2 tablespoons unsalted butter

Place the fish in a low-sided baking dish.

In a small bowl, mix together the olive oil, lemon zest, garlic cloves, nutmeg, and black pepper. Pour the mixture over the fish, and move the fish around in it until it is well coated inside and out.

Heat the oven to 425 degrees. While it is heating let the fish sit at room temperature to absorb the marinade, about 20 minutes (you can marinate it and then refrigerate it for a few hours before cooking if you want).

When you’re ready to bake the fish, season it all over with salt. Tuck the garlic cloves from the marinade inside the fish’s cavity, and pour the wine and the lemon juice around the fish.

Bake the fish without turning it until it is just tender, about 20 minutes. (Check by poking a knife into the backbone and gently separating the flesh from the bone; it will be white and just starting to flake when cooked.) If the wine evaporates during cooking, add a splash more, or a little water.

Transfer the fish to a warmed serving platter. Scatter on the basil. Add the butter to the baking dish and stir it into the cooking liquid. Pour the sauce over the fish. Fillet the fish and spoon a little sauce over each serving.

Read Full Post »